By Virginia Jasmin Pasalo

 

WE like to convince ourselves that we are preoccupied with important things, disregarding those around us. We take them for granted because they are always there, with no conditions. However, we are at a loss when all of a sudden, they’re gone, to pursue their own directions, or worse, they’re gone, for good. You’d wish you’d told them how valuable they were, but now, there’s no one there, except the presence that hovers in each corner of the space that reminds you of the many things that once were.

Out of propriety or restraint, some were left unsaid. You look at the sky and whisper. The whisper comes back as an echo carried by a rock pigeon perched on the ledge on the rooftop. What would you have said if he were there, right in front of you, instead of the bird, looking into your eyes? Would he have understood what was unsaid?

If you have given the poem you wrote for him, would he have an idea of how deeply you regarded his presence, given the fact that he is not into poetry but into prose, the kind used in writing reports to the United Nations, or submitted as business proposals? You kept the poem, an insertion between the pages of your record of transactions, expenses and daily net worth. In the passing of time, you forgot you even wrote it, remembering only that it existed, somewhere.

Well, here it is, with a notation: 15 July 2014 9:18 p.m.

 

I like to stay

I like to stay in your river
where I can walk on stones
or pick small shrimps
I can swim with
In your mouth

I like to stay in your mind
because it has simple tracks
and I can be a small train
running slowly in your thoughts

I like to stay in your heart
because it is big
and I can be a big dream falling
in perfect momentum
and grace

I like to stay in your prison
because there I am naked
and free.

If he read it, would he have stayed? Maybe he would. Or maybe he understood what you were trying to say but left, overwhelmed with the burden of knowing the complications it presents in the context of his own reality. He’s gone now. Gone in the sense that he can’t remember. Or if he remembers, unable to act on his own free will. He has forgotten to get back his college ring. You have forgotten where you kept it.

In your solitude, you remember. You realize that he is a significant part of what remains of you. And he never knew. Or he knew but didn’t tell you. The clouds gently merge themselves once more, like it’s going to rain. You can talk to the rock pigeon. Or talk to the wind.